


A Proper Letter

by fabula_prima



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Frottage (light), One Shot, Role Playing (sort of), Smut, Wall Sex, letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 05:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12624618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: Charlotte finds Cullen writing a letter and wants one of her own.





	A Proper Letter

Heavy rains battered the coastline in July, without fail. Sticky hot pavement hissed in the wake of the cooling deluge so that tendrils of steam reached skyward, eager to return to the clouds. As the steely sky darkened the whole of her house, Charlotte retreated to her makeshift library. Cullen sat hunched over the desk, scribbling thoughtfully while he hummed, illuminated by a dim lamp.

“What are you doing?”

His eyebrows lifted in harmony with his head, and with books surrounding him, the expression gave him the look of a man on the suspenseful brink of some scholarly discovery. A portrait ought to have been painted of him like that: sleeves cuffed to his elbows, pen in hand, hair disheveled, eyes filled to brimming with wonder. But then his face softened into a warm, lazy smile.

“Just writing a letter. I pen them to Cass every so often, in the event I ever make it back.”

“Well that’s just darling. But who writes letters anymore?”

He reclined back in his seat a bit, hands on the arm rests of the chair, and pointed a glare at her. “Well, those of us without telephones have to make do with what we can. Besides, there’s something intimate about letters.”

“Intimate?”

“Take the two of us. Were we back in Thedas and separated from one another, letters would be the only way to communicate our affections.”

“Ooooh, naughty letters?”

“ _Maker_ , no, I mean–I suppose–perhaps, but–”

“What would you write to me?”

“That I love you. And miss you terribly.”

“Aw…but no, you know what I mean.” Charlotte approached the increasingly blushing visage of her Ser Knight and sat on the edge of the desk just in front of him. “What would you write to keep me company on cold nights without you?”

“That’s the thing about letter writing," he said, fidgeting with his pen. "You have time to think about what you want to say.”

“You need some time, then?”

“If I want to do it properly, yes.”

“Well then, Rutherford. Write me a proper letter.”

* * *

It was sometime around midnight when Charlotte woke at the sound of nearby crackling thunder to find herself sleeping alone. The book she’d been reading laid sprawled against her stomach and her hands itched to reach out and stroke golden locks that so typically would have been right beside her. So she slid out of bed, feet against the cold, smooth floor, to seek out Cullen. Out of habit, she checked the library first and found no sign of him, despite the lamp still shining down at the desk. Her eyes fell upon wads of crumpled paper and she began to worry. So unlike Ser Knight to leave his space in disarray. But then she spied her name at the top of the illumined sheet.

> _Dearest Charlotte,_
> 
> _I struggle to write a proper letter to you when all of my thoughts are improper, indecent. When we are parted, I so often think of your voice, and in imagining it, hear you say my name. Oh that I could whisper yours in return, against your lovely ear, into the warmth of your hair–_

“Charlotte, darling, are you still up?” Cullen called from the living room.

She stole the paper from the desk, careful not to fold or wrinkle it. “Just looking for a book.”

“I’ll be in shortly. There’s a program on, about ancient Egypt, have you heard of it?”

It never got less endearing, hearing him discover her world’s common knowledge for the first time. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting.”

As stealthily as she could manage, she returned to the bedroom with the letter in hand, and tossed herself onto the mattress to continue reading…

> _–and show you how much I long for the press of your body against mine. Maker, you are beautiful. Does it please you to know that when I daydream of pressing my mouth against your delicate neck, your soft bosom, I can hardly contain my arousal? And if I think of your lips, I’m lost. I try to touch myself, relieve myself, but nothing compares to the feel of your lips, the gentle caress of your hands. Often, I envision you clad in my own tunic, or in ~~one of the lacy underthings that dainty small clothes~~_

Lingerie seemed to have stumped him. The letter ended abruptly, likely meant for the pile of rejected attempts already littering his desk. But it had done its job, and Charlotte felt goosebumps rise along her arms and legs. Racing to the dresser, she sought out a clothing compromise: an absurdly tiny set of lingerie the exact same color as his beloved tunic. She disrobed and donned the gossamer panties and low-cupped bra that matched before releasing her hair from its messy top knot and climbing onto the bed. She felt a bit ridiculous, attempting to pose herself seductively; their sex life had never really called for such a staging. But a cursory glance down at herself confirmed that her tits did, in fact, look superb hoisted up and pressed together, and she slipped rather easily into a lusty state of mind.

She cleared her throat, shook her hair out, and called to Cullen. “Oh Ser Knight, how much longer will I be waiting?”

The sound of his feet scuffling across the floor was enough of a response, and Charlotte felt her heart thud hard against her ribcage.

“Not one moment longer, my dear. I was just about to…”

He stood stock still in the doorway, lips parted around whatever he had planned to say. She watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall with a hard swallow and felt her own breath catch as well.

“Maker’s breath, Charlie…you’re…you look…”

“Appealing, I hope.”

A blush rose to his cheeks and to the broad expanse of his chest. He’d been lounging without a shirt on, as was his habit on warm nights, and so the subtle contractions of the muscles along his ribs and above his waistband were exposed to Charlotte’s delight. She had affected him, as she had hoped, and couldn’t help but rub her thighs together as she watched his fists clench and unclench. He was always a bit shy at first, blushing and averting his gaze. But when he grew sure of Charlotte’s intentions, he would breathe deep, spread his shoulders wide, and lift his chin. The subtle change in posture seemed to give him confidence, and never failed to stir warmth in her belly.

“You look far too good for me,” he responded, stalking towards the bed.

“Nonsense. Nothing too good for my Knight.”

He looked down into her eyes, his nostrils flaring with each searing breath he took. His brow looked heavy, dark with lust as he leaned in and placed a single, restrained kiss against her parted lips.

“Did you find my letter, then?”

It was Charlotte’s turn to go red. Her eyes remained locked on his as she suppressed a grin. “I may have seen it…and it may have given me an idea or two.”

“Like?”

“Like how it would feel to be a waiting damsel, eager for my gallant love to return to me. How it would feel to have you back in my arms after you’d faced all sorts of danger. And what it would be like to have you take me…ravish me after returning victorious.”

“Battle lust.”

“There’s such a thing?”

His hand splayed across her chest as he rubbed his thumb along her collarbone. “Would you like me to show you?”

Liquid heat bloomed against the fine lace of her panties at the timbre of his voice. As soon as she whispered her approval, he swept her near naked form into his arms and against his bare chest. Under normal circumstances, she would have chuckled at the theatrics. But here, she melted, pliant against the press of his hard muscularity. Her fingers buried themselves in the curls above his ear and he kissed her hastily, desperately, his teeth scraping against her bottom lip, his stubble grating against her chin. Her head spun, but he held her tightly, rounded bicep pressed firmly to the soft outside of her thigh.

When he finally pried his mouth from hers for a breath, she panted through swollen lips. “I thought you were supposed to get me into bed, not pull me out of it.”

He took another harsh kiss with a near growl and it sent a pulse straight to her cunt. “I’ve just returned to you after weeks of missing your touch.” His whispered breath was scalding, damp against her ear as he took measured steps away from the bed. He pressed his nose into the crook of her neck and sucked tenderly at the tendons pulled taut there. “Night after night of calling your name as I took myself in hand and wished it were your sweet cunny tightened around me.” Without warning, he released her legs with his right arm, leaving her on trembling toes while his left arm remained wrapped around her shoulders. “In time I’ll make gentle love to you once more, but now, I just need to _feel_ you.”

He walked behind her, and when she looked down, she could see his bare feet placed outside each of hers. His presence behind her, warm, heavy, and safe, sent her nerves alight. And then his light touch against the nape of her neck. She shivered from neck to tailbone, inch-by-inch, and her head lolled back, assured that it would fall against him. He placed his chin atop her left shoulder and held his lips around her earlobe without sealing them.

“You look like utter sin,” he breathed, leaning into her whimper. His left hand splayed wide against the flat of her belly while its match palmed the swell of a breast, spilling out of its cup. She felt his knuckle graze against a tightening nipple and breathed deep, pressing it further into his hold. He ground his swelling bulge against her ass in return and a soft moan finally tumbled from her lips.

The fingers of his left hand began to roam, little more than light, tickling touches along the gentle swell of her stomach, just below her navel. And then they reached down to cup her mound, through her underwear. Something about the curve of his hand against her made her knees weak, whether he was cradling a breast or palming her sex. He pressed the length of his middle finger along her slit and drew in a shaking breath.

“Absolutely soaked, already,” he noted. “You missed me too?”

She ground down into his palm and arched her back until her shoulder blades pressed against his chest. “You came back safely because you’re a strong, capable warrior. Show me,” she breathed. “Show me how strong you are.” Both hands retreated from their ministrations and gripped either side of her hips, spinning her around to face him.

Her back was against a wall and his still clothed thigh nestled between her legs, virtually pinning her in place. One hand cupped her jaw and the other buried itself in her hair, drawing her face close as if to drink from her. His tongue like hot liquid, he moaned into her, swallowing each of her breaths as soon as they left her heaving chest.

She cried his name against his mouth, but it was little more than a mumble. When she could catch breaths, she encouraged him. “Oh Cullen, I had no idea you wanted me like this.”

His thigh, thick and hard as a rock, pressed up into her in a slow stroke. She felt her feet nearly leave the floor and her head dropped back, crown to wall. “I want you in every way, darling,” he answered, running the backs of his fingers along the soft insides of her arms. Charlotte made use of his thigh and ground herself upon it, hyper sensitive to the friction of the sodden lace against her clit. He laughed, as if amused by her eagerness, but his own desperation was clear in his hungry eyes, his hardened cock, his constricting voice. She grabbed his hair in fistfuls and pulled his head down to her cleavage. “Mouth. On me.”

He reached around as if to unlatch her bra, but she yanked his head back. “Leave it on.” He matched her stare for a brief moment, slipping out of the performance for just an instant, before burying his nose back into the soft flesh and sliding his arms all the way around her back to squeeze tight. She was enveloped, unconscious of anything but the smooth, slick sensation of his lips and tongue in contrast to the grit of his scruffy chin. She released her grip on his hair and ran her fingertips, blunt fingernails, over his chest and stomach until she reached the waistband of his pants. They hung lazily on his hips, but clung to the curve of his ass, which she reached around and clutched. It was a glorious ass, she had decided long ago, firm and full, shaped by some artful god, hellbent on perfection. To match, they’d given him a truly devastating cock. Not unusually large or long, but responsive and weighty, and wielded by a man who, above all else, got off by giving pleasure. She ran her hand from the base of his spine around his hip, to the lowest part of his twitching belly and snuck her fingers through the coarse, flaxen curls there. When she wrapped her fingers around the base of his erection, all stone and satin, he chuckled into her chest where his mouth still attended.

“Tell me what you want, Charlotte.” His voice was commanding, but shaky on the exhalation as she squeezed him gently.

“You.”

“Tell me exactly.”

“I want you to take me. You’re a desired man, I know it.” She released him and hooked her thumbs into her panties, shifting her hips to slide them down.

“ _Maker_.”

“But you chose _me_. And I only want _you_.“ Like she had done for herself, she removed Cullen’s last vestment and let his pants fall to the floor in a whisper.

“You’re mine.”

“So show me. Fuck me like you should have died last night, but instead returned to me.” She had thought of this many times, wondered what it would be like if they were back there, back with the danger. Wondered how much she would worry after him. But tonight they were safe, he had returned from her worries unscathed and still mad with desire for her.

He gripped a firm hand to her waist and without hesitation, he sheathed himself in her with a long groan. “Maaaaker, woman, how are you so tight?”

Her head tipped back for a moment, then fell forward against his shoulder. “How are you so perfect?”

They stilled, content for the moment to focus on the comfort of being filled, being enveloped. She could indulge hours spent so, heavy eyelids and low, warm, bubbly laughter at the sensation of him within her. But he began to stir, shallow thrusts, like gentle flexing. The subtlety of it stole her breath and she clutched him tightly, encouraging the torturously slow pace. She shifted to stand on her toes, instinctively seeking an angle that she couldn’t even verbalize. He read the movement and, without breaking rhythm, reached for the tender back of her knee, pulling it up and past his waist.

She whined a mumbled _“fuck me,_ ” and he chuckled against her neck. “I’m– _ahhh-_ I’m trying to.”

“Harder,” she whispered.

He pulled out a few inches before driving back into her, pressing hard enough that her whole body slid incrementally up the wall. She latched her raised leg around his hip, so he lifted her second leg, bracing her weight between his force and the wall and set a new, frantic pace. It was a delicious position, pinned bodily by a frenzy of ardor and virile strength, where she could see each muscle, built by hard labor and necessity, flex and stretch and bulge, even as her eyes fluttered shut. She had scoffed so many times when people spoke of sex as an animalistic procreative impulse. But as she forced her eyes open to see the ecstatic effort coursing through every flexed muscle, to see his lips parted and his forehead creased, to know how much she loved him, she felt something primitive rouse and wanted nothing more than the splash of his seed deep within. At just the thought of the sensation, she felt herself begin to unravel. She grappled for his shoulders, sweat-slicked as they were, and begged him–to stop, to never stop, to finish, to never leave. He held her tightly and returned to the shallow, infuriatingly slight strokes until the aching fullness and whispered _“Maker, you’re so lovely, so fucking astonishing”_ drove her to tense every fiber of her body. She began to tremble and in the midst of her insensibility, he came, she felt it, but she had missed it on his face and she wept quietly to herself at the loss. When her body relaxed, she collapsed into him, onto him, began sinking down, and he panted, cradled her as they pooled together on the floor.

“Proper letter?” he asked, catching his breath.

“Mhmm.”

“Proper fucking.”

Her laughter leaked out of her in shivers and as the rain persisted, she kissed each inch of him until she fell asleep with her lips pressed to his shoulder.


End file.
